


Thor's Letters

by Iluvstucky



Category: The Get Down (TV)
Genre: I need help, M/M, this is depressing af, why am i like this, why am i so emo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 09:16:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10964241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iluvstucky/pseuds/Iluvstucky
Summary: A series of letters that Thor wrote to Dizzee after the end of the part 2 finale.





	Thor's Letters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [howveryzoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/howveryzoe/gifts).



Dear Dizzee,  
I hope you’re okay, I know that's weird coming from a guy in jail. It's not that bad though Dizzee so please don't worry about me. It's not like I haven't been here before.  
But in truly I really hope you're okay. All I remember from that night was seeing you run into the tunnel. That dark, cold tunnel. I remember the screaming, maybe it was mine, and the shouting, the cops, and the train rumbling awfully.  
However I don't remember seeing you after the train passed. I think that's a great thing, it means you got away. It gives me so much comfort knowing that you weren't caught.  
Please promise me that you won't end up in here with me. I couldn't stand to see you caged like me. You see, a bird can stand being caged. Even if it can feel the walls closing in around it, if it can feel its wings being clipped, hear the snapping of weak hollow bones, it can survive.  
But an alien in a top hat, it can't end up in here, it can't end up being caught and trapped and probed and gawked at. The alien in the top hat can't stand to be in a shrinking birdcage. He can't be tamed and never should be.  
He’s so strong and free and beautiful and can do so many amazing things but he can't stand this place.  
He can't stand Riker’s.  
So please take your purple crayon and draw yourself a better life, a safer life, far from this place of stone and iron.  
In no way am I telling you to stop painting, creating, I just want to hear that you're safe and that you won't end up like me, A bird with broken wings in a shrinking cage.  
Please write back.  
P.S Im enclosing a sketch with this letter. Maybe it'll give you hope. Hope that I am okay.

. . .

Dear Dizzee,  
It's been a week since my last letter. I wish so deeply that you would respond but I know that your life must be very hard right now and that I gotta wait.  
Life here has already fallen into a steady drone of mundane activities. The endless days in my gray, cold, wet, and depressing cage have begun to blur together.  
The people here don't bother me much so please don't worry about me. My only real enemy here is time. So much time spent being alone and cold. So much time spent without you.  
Three years Dizzee and the only thing I really worry about is not seeing you.  
Your smile. Your voice. You.  
I remember that night at Chelsea Pier. When we painted. You were so vibrant. So powerful and so bright that there was no way I could paint your outsides to match your inside. No amount of color could truly match that bright, warmth that you radiate.  
And then you painted me. I remember your warmth when you stood close to me. I can remember your masterful hands as they guided the brushes along my skin. How you would flick your wrists and the brush could suddenly reveal beauty that no one has ever seen before. How focused you were. And how you seemed to see right through me. You could see my insides and knew exactly how to paint them.  
What god had I pleased to have ever met you. I still can't wrap my head around it. You're a master with the brush and with the mic.  
That night on the roof. When you performed with the Get Down Brothers. When you cursed Koch and sent me a heart across the roof, your words were your paints. The way you strung them together to paint true poetry. It was almost as if you had brought Rumi to life simply with a string of letters.  
All I can think of nowadays is your voice, and your hands, your brain, your heart, your lips. Your warmth. Your vision. The way you make the world your canvas and you won’t apologize for it. Your skillful wrists and the way they unlock the secrets of the universe.  
Dizzee, I miss you. All of you.  
I’m still waiting for your response.

Love, Thor.  
P.S Im enclosing another sketch. This time to reassure you that I won’t forget you.

. . .

Dear Dizzee,  
I have the best news. Apparently they finished processing all those arrested the same night as your brother. He isnt here. Isn't that incredible? It means he's not on Riker’s. He must be still in the city somewhere, maybe the borough jails which are better than here, or maybe even out already. It was a relief for me, and hopefully will be for you. I just knew that the sun would shine eventually.  
Dizzee please see this as a sign that the universe is in your favor. And maybe it will shine its light on me.  
Dizzee my days grow colder and and darker without you. Please respond when you can. And if it's at all possible please send me your latest issue of the Get Down Brothers. I miss you and your beautiful art.

Love Thor.

. . .

Dearest Dizzee,  
This emptiness I feel is eating me everyday and soon I feel there won't be anything left. It's been I don't know how many weeks since I wrote my first letter. Ever since then the idea of your reply has been the tiny sliver of hope in the heavy raincloud of my life. I miss you and I no longer have the words to describe how badly. I find myself pressed to the north wall of myself just trying to feel closer to you. It is no longer just my heart that longs for you but my entire body. It's like an engine on its last legs, about to die, and you are the little spark, the beautiful spark, that would ignite me back to life. You have no idea how happy it would make me to see you again. Or to even just hear from you.  
You know how they say that love is the most powerful drug? I think i'm hooked on you.  
Missing you is like a withdrawal all in of itself. I'm constantly shivering and even on the hottest most humid of days my skin crawls with cold. I sweat through all my sheets.  
I can't sleep. I simply find myself thinking of you. All my waking moments are spent imagining being with you again. And the few hours I spend asleep I dream.  
I dream of Rumi.  
In my dreams you come to me with your purple crayon and you rescue me. And when the police arrive, instead of trying to capture you they cower before you. The alien in the top hat. They now see their mistakes and they see you for who you truly are, a being of art, and they stand no match against you.  
But now it's too late. For they did you wrong for too long. Now you are here before them in all your glory and yet, even when you have all the power you need to stand against them you simply look at them in pity. Because they will never understand. How could they? And then you scoop me up, with my broken wings, and you carry me to the opera. Dizzee I promise you when I get out I will take you to the opera. And no one would dare to harm you because I would be there with you, shield out just like the drawing on the train. And they would have to draw my last breath before I ever let them touch you. 

Dizzee I love you.

. . .

Dizzee,  
I know that I write so often now. Almost daily even. But this is because I can feel. I feel myself fading. I can feel myself losing myself. In this fucking hellhole I can't feel myself anymore. And what's worse I can't feel your warmth anymore. That warmth from that night, it lingered with me but recently I can't feel it. It’s been lost in the dark, cold maze of this prison, locked up where I can’t touch it. This prison that eats away at any joy you might have left in your broken hollow bones. I sucks you dry. Dizzee please answer me.

Thor.

. . .

Dizzee,  
I don't know if this letter will ever reach you.  
But please ignore all my previous requests. Don't come here. Dont visit me.  
Not that it matters anyways you wouldn't be able to. I'm writing to you from solitary.  
I recently had to visit the prisons doctor. I'm sick.  
The doctor doesn't know how it happened but it seems I have pneumonia, some weird strain. A bunch of other guys here have it too. It's bad but do not worry for me. I simply don't want you to see me, I look awful I might have to stop writing for a while while i try to get better.  
Please Dizzee. Dont worry for me and take care of yourself. I want to hear that you are all right.  
Dizzee. All I ask is that you're okay.

Thor.

. . .

Dear Thor,  
It's a pleasure to finally speak with you. This is Adele Kipling, Dizzee’s mother. We’ve read all the wonderful letters you've written. We’ve pieced together that you two were together, right?  
Its wonderful that he found someone. And we’re really touched by all of your letters and sketches. You really did love him, didn't you? We hope that you get better.  
But the real reason we are writing to you is to help you, and us, move on.  
This is an awful terrible thing to put into a letter but we can't let this keep going on. Dizzee is no longer with us. He passed the night you were arrested. A train accident.  
I know this must be tragic to hear and we hate to tell you this this way but we had no other choice. We want to move on. We can't have these constant reminders of him. We want you to receive closure so that we can too. It breaks my heart to have to say this. But please stop writing to him.  
We wish you health and peace. Please, do not be afraid to write to us if you need help with anything. But please let our son move on.

Mr and Mrs Kipling.

. . .

Dear Mr and Mrs Kipling,  
Thank you for your offer but I will not be needing anything anymore.

Thor.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to howveryzoe for forcing me to write this.


End file.
